


What We Do Not Say

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Denial of Feelings, Double Penetration, Emotional Constipation, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Content, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7043812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started out merely as a way to distract d'Artagnan from his heartbreak.  It spiraled from there. </p>
<p>Or: How Aramis figured out he was in love with Porthos thanks to a threesome with d'Artagnan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Do Not Say

**Author's Note:**

> Based off [this prompt](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/post/144864023267/portamis-someone-dartagnan-having-a) from an anon, and it kind of exploded away from me. This is basically just a lot of words about porn. I'm not fully happy with the ending, but oh well.
> 
> As a side-note regarding the pairing tags: portamis is the emotional couple, portamis/d'art is the sexual couple. There are also mentions of Constance/d'Art, although timeframe for this fic falls somewhere between s1 and s2, and so they are not actually together at this time. ~~also, prepare for some really bad threesome etiquette because portamis are the worst.~~

The first time he suggests it, it goes like this: 

Aramis smiles and d’Artagnan gives him a bewildered look. 

“You want to do… _what_?” d’Artagnan asks after a long silence between them. 

Aramis breathes out calmly through his nose, strums his fingers along the lip of his cup of wine and repeats, “I want you to sleep with me.” He’s tested out the weight of the phrase, lets the pause draw out before he adds, “And Porthos.”

“Both of you,” d’Artagnan says. He doesn’t look repulsed. But he seems slightly mystified. 

“At the same time, preferably,” Aramis says, cheerfully enough. He’s always found that being straightforward in these ways can work better than coyness. He takes a long drink of his wine, watching d’Artagnan over the rim. 

But d’Artagnan continues to stare at him as if he’s gone completely out of his mind. 

“I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at him. And me,” Aramis says, primly. “I can’t blame you. I am gorgeous.” 

And d’Artagnan stares at him for half a second, blushes, and then starts to laugh. It’s a nervous gesture that soon coalesces into something deeper and more amused – clearly sure that Aramis is joking. He takes a hefty drag from his cup. 

Aramis smiles and lets it go, for now.

 

-

 

It’d been a logical guess, that d’Artagnan would be interested in this sort of thing. He first proposed it to Porthos while Porthos was pressing him down into his bed, fucking into him. 

He’d gasped out between happy, pleased moans, “What if we asked d’Artagnan to come here, too?” 

Porthos’ first reaction was to laugh and then say, “Clearly I have to go harder if you’re thinking of someone else.”

Aramis had only grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “Well. I won’t say no to that.” 

Porthos had laughed, seemed fit to let himself be distracted, except that Aramis was insistent. 

“I’m serious,” he’d told Porthos, rocking his hips as Porthos fisted around his cock and squeezed. “I think— ah.” 

Porthos had laughed, stroked him faster, then slower, then fast again – dragged his thumb along his cockhead. He hadn’t said no. Instead, he’d said, a hot whisper against his ear, “Just don’t be an idiot about it, yeah?” 

 

-

 

The second time he suggests it, it goes like this:

“This again,” d’Artagnan mutters, then turns away with a large roll of his eyes. 

Aramis is encouraged. It isn’t d’Artagnan storming away in disgust, it’s him actually entertaining the idea and pretending that he isn’t. 

He waits patiently for d’Artagnan to realize that Aramis is being quite earnest with this. He blinks at him, slowly, as the embarrassed laugh dies down. 

“Wait,” he says. “You’re serious?” 

“Just think about it,” Aramis says with a wicked smile, plucking an apple from the table and strolling out of the garrison. He doesn’t look back but he hopes d’Artagnan is looking. 

 

-

 

Later that same day, d’Artagnan’s bewildered face in his mind’s eye, he only grins at Porthos and watches as he licks up the last of the come from his fingertips and then drops down beside Aramis, humming out as Aramis leans in to lick first at his lips and then into his mouth, kissing him slowly. 

“I asked him,” he tells Porthos, once they part.

“Hm?” Porthos hums out, confused and sleepy. He slings an arm over Aramis’ stomach, nuzzling at his shoulder. It’s lovely and distracting, and Aramis turns his head with a sigh, nosing into Porthos’ hair and letting himself be indulgent. 

“I asked d’Artagnan if he’d like to join us,” Aramis clarifies and Porthos snorts out softly against his shoulder, presses a sloppy kiss at his neck. Aramis’ pulse flutters and he sighs out, relaxing. 

“What?” Porthos asks.

“We’ve discussed his,” Aramis says with a dismissive little wave of his fingers. “I think it’d be good for him.”

“Hm,” Porthos grunts, kissing Aramis’ neck. 

“… Is it alright?” Aramis asks, tipping his head back with a sigh, hands lifting to curl into his hair, holding gently, thumbs circling over his scalp. Porthos makes a pleased rumbling sound. Aramis drops a kiss to the crown of his head as Porthos starts sucking at the spot where his neck becomes his jaw. 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Porthos tells him, dragging his teeth along the line of his jaw. “Just don’t overdo it, alright?” 

“I think it’ll be good for him,” Aramis says, hooking his leg over Porthos’ hips and dragging him so he’s up on top of him. Porthos draws back to look at him and Aramis cants up a winning smile. “We are, after all, exceptionally talented and handsome. You especially.”

Porthos snorts and grins at him, and lifts his hand to pinch Aramis’ nose. Aramis bubbles out a laugh and shoves his hand away, grinning. 

He sobers a moment later, running his hand over Porthos’ arm, tracing at the lines of his muscles, a few faded scars. “After everything with Constance… I think he could use the distraction.” 

They’re quiet for a moment, clearly thinking of Constance Bonacieux, lost to d’Artagnan for now, back home in her little house with her husband. 

“Not everyone’s like this,” Porthos says. “Even if he’s sad over here, he might not be ready to move on.”

“I’m hardly suggesting he move on,” Aramis says, knowing better than many that _moving on_ is simply not possible. “But… being distracted by lovely friends can help, right?” 

They’re sober for a moment.

And then Aramis says, “Plus, we’re very attractive. Who can resist?” 

“Alright, alright,” Porthos says, laughing, “If you want to fuck him so bad…” 

“It’s not about that,” Aramis protests, frowns at Porthos’ grin. He can’t place it into words. He also can’t place into words why Porthos’ reaction makes something twist up in his gut. He shakes his head. “Alright, maybe it’s a bit about that.” 

“Want to watch me fuck him, do you?” Porthos asks, laughing, and waggles his eyebrows.

Aramis sniffs and wraps both legs around Porthos’ hips, tugging him down. “I’d rather you fuck me, Monsieur.” 

“Well, if the gentleman insists,” Porthos says with a long sigh that hardly masks his grin, and lets Aramis tug him down for a kiss. 

 

-

 

Aramis does follow Porthos’ advice and doesn’t overdo it. He lets d’Artagnan sit with it. It takes all his restraint – and really, Porthos should be congratulating him on his patience with this – but he doesn’t approach d’Artagnan on the subject for almost two weeks.

In that time, though, he sees d’Artagnan watching Porthos – with a different kind of look than before. Studying him. Mindful. Watching the way Porthos walks his horse to the stables, or the way he eats his breakfast, wipes his thumb across his mouth, loads his weapons, spars with the recruits. Porthos is methodical, and d’Artagnan is methodical in watching him. 

Witnessing this, Aramis would have expected to feel proud that he’d planted a seed that was starting to grow. But instead—

Instead, he feels odd. 

Porthos ambles back into the garrison. He’s kicking up dirt from his boots, leading along his mare with a grin and a nod towards Aramis and d’Artagnan. Aramis feels his shoulders tighten when d’Artagnan sits up straighter, letting himself look – really _look_ – at Porthos. 

It’s Porthos. Of course anyone willing to look would realize that Porthos is handsome. The sun is in his hair today, his cheeks glowing with warmth as he grins and turns away, tugging his horse along. He’s beautiful. Aramis has always thought so. 

This is what he imagines d’Artagnan must see: a beautiful, handsome man, with strong arms, strong hands, a kind smile. Porthos. Their friend. It can’t be any different than before, the only difference being that d’Artagnan can now let himself want.

But watching the way d’Artagnan watches Porthos, something at the back of Aramis’ neck stands up unpleasantly. He can’t place why. It’s worse, in a moment, when he sees the way desire ignites in d’Artagnan’s eyes – still uncertain how to handle it, but willing to try. This is what Aramis was hoping for, after all. To help a friend. For two friends to help a friend. But all Aramis can think is—

_You don’t know him like this. You can’t know him like this._

He dismisses the thought as quickly as it erupts. Instead, he tilts his head and waits for d’Artagnan to glance at him, blushing. 

He merely lifts an eyebrow. 

“Well?” he prompts. He knows when to push, he likes to think, and this seems a time to push. At the same time, well—

He drops his voice down lower, so they won’t be overheard. 

“There’s no hard feelings,” Aramis tells him, “if I’m being too forward with this. We only thought – it’d help.” 

And d’Artagnan, at least, doesn’t pretend to misunderstand what Aramis means. 

“… I’ll think about it.” 

 

-

 

Aramis spends the night with Madame Beauvoir, who is lovely and accommodating in so many ways, and has quite the hand for knots. It’s a thoroughly eventful and wonderful night for all involved, and Aramis heads back towards the garrison the next morning exceptionally cheered and fortified. 

He walks back into the garrison to see d’Artagnan sitting at the table, eating, Porthos’ standing above him, one foot propped up on the bench and leaning forward slightly. Aramis freezes in step. Porthos is munching on a peach, talking with d’Artagnan about something utterly benign, he’s sure, but Aramis can’t stop staring at the two of them, the easy conversation – Porthos, laughing, and d’Artagnan smiling up at him. 

Before he can join them, d’Artagnan stands, piece of bread clutched between his teeth, and he slaps Porthos’ shoulder in parting before he heads out. He grins and nods to Aramis as he passes, his cheeks slightly red as they pass. Aramis turns to look at him over his shoulder for a moment before he heads over towards Porthos. 

“Hey,” Porthos greets. 

“What was that about?” 

Porthos lifts an eyebrow at the abruptness of Aramis’ words. Aramis can’t be embarrassed. Porthos munches on his peach, licks some of the juice from his gloves in a way that is both distracting and obscene, and also utterly intoxicating. 

“Weapons. He wants to commission a new pistol and was wondering where I got mine.” 

Porthos casts a glance towards Porthos’ pistol, lets his eyes linger at his crotch in a thoroughly unsubtle way. Porthos laughs. 

“… Are you busy right now?” Aramis asks. 

Porthos’ grin turns crooked. “Always got time for you.” 

Aramis drags him off to his room and they spend the afternoon there, until the scent of Madame Beauvoir’s perfume is long gone from his skin and hair and all he can smell and taste is Porthos. 

 

-

 

Most afternoons, Aramis catches d’Artagnan watching Porthos – thoughtful, considering. It’s usually when Porthos isn’t watching back. 

Some afternoons, though, Aramis sees Porthos looking back at d’Artagnan – grinning at him, joking with him, being his generally wonderful self. 

He watches the way the desire burns in d’Artagnan’s eyes, now that he’s let himself think about it. Aramis knows it’s only a matter of time now. 

 

-

 

Some days, he sees d’Artagnan looking at him, too. He makes sure there’s more of a swagger in his step whenever he notices, shrugs out of his coat and rolls up his shirtsleeves. Sends a smile d’Artagnan’s way.

Only a matter of time now.

 

-

 

When it finally does happen, it’s more abrupt than Aramis thought it’d be.

“Alright,” d’Artagnan tells him one sunny late afternoon. 

Aramis looks up, chewing on a piece of bread. He continues to chew and d’Artagnan continues to stand there, arms crossed, shoulders slightly hunched. 

“Alright?” Aramis prompts, unsure what he could mean. He feels sleepy this morning, warm and weary, bruises on his thighs from Porthos’ teeth the night before. It’s a nice feeling. 

“Don’t make me say it,” d’Artagnan answers, visibly frustrated and embarrassed. 

Aramis slowly stops chewing as it sinks in. His heart leaps up in excitement. He tells himself to stay calm. 

“Ah.” And then he grins. “Oh, good.” 

He stands and d’Artagnan startles. He clears his throat quickly, attempting to not blush, as Aramis slings an arm around his shoulders, continuing to grin at him. 

“So… when?” d’Artagnan asks. 

“When would you like?” Aramis hums out and watches d’Artagnan blush more. He laughs. “Oh… I see. Now?” 

“Well…” d’Artagnan trails off. Eventually he’ll stop blushing, Aramis thinks, and that will be a sad day. He’s glad for this, really. The main reason for this was, of course, to help d’Artagnan feel better, to help him feel more at ease. He hopes it will help. He thinks it will. 

“No time like the present,” Aramis says with a shrug. “We don’t want you to back out now, do we?” 

He unwraps his arm from around him and tilts his head towards Porthos’ room. He starts walking, leading the way. 

“I wouldn’t,” d’Artagnan protests, but follows Aramis as he heads towards Porthos’ room. He seems relieved. “Still… Is it alright?” 

“Hm?” Aramis asks. He’s not about to launch into his explanation of God’s view on Aramis’ supremely lackadaisical view of sex, much less sex between three men. Aramis has always been exceptionally fond of being sandwiched between two men, in the end. As he’s told Porthos on any number of occasion if only because it makes Porthos laugh. He can launch into the religious absolution if d’Artagnan needs it, but his mouth could be so much better occupied, he thinks. 

“Is it alright… with you two,” d’Artagnan clarifies. “If I’m there.” 

Aramis still doesn’t know what he’s getting at, so he pauses, lifting an eyebrow. He looks at him. “What do you mean?” 

“You two are…” d’Artagnan trails off, biting the inside of his cheek and looking momentarily frustrated by his lack of words. “You have your… thing. I guess. I don’t want to intrude or make it strange between you two.” 

Aramis almost laughs. Porthos and Aramis pride themselves in being discreet when it comes to this – in fact, it is necessary and imperative that they’re discreet – but still something twists up in Aramis’ stomach at the thought of d’Artagnan _not knowing._ Not understanding. 

But then – there wasn’t anything to understand. It was merely sex. It is only sex – d’Artagnan can’t intrude on that, after all. 

_You’re the one who invited him to your bed,_ he reminds himself. _You’re the one who worked so hard for him to agree._

“A thing,” Aramis says, somewhat disbelieving. 

A sigh wisps out of d’Artagnan’s mouth and he looks frustrated, but willing to play along. “You’re best friends. I – well. More, clearly. I don’t want it to be strange. I honestly – I don’t know why you—”

Aramis shakes his head, and tries to keep his voice level. “Porthos and I do not have a _thing_. We only share each other’s beds. And others’ beds, too, of course. And then we tell each other about it. We’re friends.” 

“Friends,” d’Artagnan says flatly. He doesn’t look convinced. 

“Very good friends,” Aramis amends. “But only friends.” 

He’s expecting this to be met with relief, but d’Artagnan only gives him a puzzling look. He leans back, surveying Aramis for a long enough moment that Aramis began to feel slightly uncomfortable with the scrutiny. 

“What?” Aramis asks, feeling somewhat helpless – laughing, because this must be some kind of joke. 

“Nothing,” d’Artagnan says, shaking his head. He rolls his eyes again, but does not clarify. Then, he finally relents – his cheeks slightly pink when he says, “Alright. Let’s just go.” 

He sets out, leading the way towards Porthos’ room. 

“Yes. Let’s,” Aramis says, faintly, and follows him. 

 

-

 

Porthos, bless his heart, does not need to be told too much when Aramis walks through the door with d’Artagnan in tow. He just looks between the two of them, lifts an eyebrow at Aramis, and then tilts his head to d’Artagnan. 

The first thing he says is a very understated, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” 

But it seems the blush has mostly subsided for d’Artagnan, because he merely sniffs and very pointedly unbuttons his coat. “Aramis is not nearly as convincing as he thinks.” 

“Nonsense,” Aramis protests faintly. “The three of us are here, aren’t we?” 

He grins at Porthos. Porthos laughs and shrugs back. “Well, alright.” 

Aramis isn’t sure what he expected – but of course Porthos wouldn’t protest. Much less after Aramis’ insistences. How many nights had he spent in Porthos’ bed, plotting out how to seduce d’Artagnan (with Porthos’ input mostly laughing and sucking his cock and telling him to not be too ridiculous; those were very pleasant nights)?

Porthos, though, is looking at d’Artagnan, too gentle for his own good. “Are you sure this is what you want?” 

And bless d’Artagnan, because he strolls up to Porthos and grabs him by his collar, tugging him down and kissing him rather boldly. Aramis watches in a dazed surprise as d’Artagnan kisses Porthos like they’ve been kissing each other for years. He watches the way d’Artagnan fumbles his hands for only half a moment before settling them on Porthos’ shoulders, Porthos’ hands falling to d’Artagnan’s hips. Aramis can’t stop staring. Can’t decide what he thinks, seeing them kiss like that. 

Porthos huffs out a small laugh when d’Artagnan draws back and asks, “Does that answer your question?” 

“Guess so,” Porthos says and grins. He looks over at Aramis and says, “Look what you did.” 

“I’m a menace,” Aramis says faintly around d’Artagnan’s embarrassed laugh. 

Porthos is watching him, though. He steps forward, reaches out, cups Aramis’ cheek and leans in – kissing him slowly, gently. 

“You alright?” he asks in a murmur, when he draws back. 

Aramis huffs and then smiles. He’s being ridiculous. He knows he is. He’s wanted d’Artagnan in their bed for ages and now they have it – and now he can have d’Artagnan and Porthos. He needs to stop over-thinking, needs to stop letting himself fall into his head. He kisses Porthos again, slow and quick, tugs his teeth over his lip before stepping away and towards d’Artagnan. 

“Now then,” he says with a wicked grin, “About those clothes, my friend…” 

 

-

 

It goes like this: 

Porthos strips d’Artagnan slowly with Aramis’ help. Porthos works at the buttons of his coat, strips it off the rest of the way, while Aramis unties his shirt at the collar and presses a sloppy kiss to his neck. Porthos faces d’Artagnan, sliding his fingertips along his sides, his hips, works at the buckles of his clothes. Aramis stands behind d’Artagnan, brushing aside his hair, kissing his shoulder. 

The entire time, d’Artagnan looks between them, unsure where to place his hands, his eyes. He doesn’t speak much, but he does laugh out breathlessly when Porthos accidentally tickles him, when he can’t get used to the scratch of Aramis’ beard against his neck.

“This is strange,” d’Artagnan admits.

“This is about you,” Aramis says, “Let us take care of you.”

“Tell us if you need us to slow down,” Porthos agrees. “And if you want something.” 

Both statements from both men are met with d’Artagnan rolling his eyes. “I’m _not_ a virgin, you know.” 

Aramis and Porthos exchange a grin. 

“Oh,” Porthos says, feigning surprise. “Is that right?” 

“You should prove it,” Aramis agrees, laughing. 

This only means d’Artagnan huffs out, makes a sound something akin to a growl, and tugs Porthos down for a sloppy, determined kiss. Porthos chuckles and indulges, and Aramis takes the opportunity to strip d’Artagnan of the rest of his clothing, so that he stands naked between them. 

He runs his hands down d’Artagnan’s back, touches over his skin, the few scars he’s managed to acquire since becoming a musketeer. Porthos kisses him deeply and d’Artagnan lets out a breathless little moan as Porthos’ hands mimic Aramis’ path, touching at his chest and slipping downward, cupping his hips. Aramis covers Porthos’ hands with his own, strokes his thumbs over his knuckles, just to feel him beneath his palms. He kisses the back of d’Artagnan’s neck. 

Porthos and d’Artagnan break their kiss. Porthos’ expression is gentle, and he breathes out a soft hum. Then he grins, crooked and lovely, and spins d’Artagnan around to face Aramis. “Kiss him. He’s better at it.” 

“It’s true,” Aramis says with a laugh, and cups d’Artagnan’s cheeks to lean in and kiss him – slow and sure, sliding his tongue into his mouth and finding d’Artagnan more than willing to meet him in the task. And d’Artagnan’s hands are not idle, lifting to start stripping Aramis down. 

Aramis feels a second set of hands on him and it makes him startle. Porthos drags one hand over his stomach, the other at his hip, as he moves to circle around them, stepping behind Aramis. Aramis sighs, seems to relax, kisses d’Artagnan slow and steady. 

Porthos runs his hands over him as Aramis kisses d’Artagnan. 

“What do you think,” he mumbles in his ear, making Aramis shiver. “Should we both take you?” 

Aramis shudders, breaking the kiss with a whine – but shakes his head quickly, blinking his eyes open to give d’Artagnan a slow smile. “Porthos, my friend, this is about d’Artagnan. Clearly he’s the one who should be between us.” 

Porthos chuckles at d’Artagnan looks between the two of them, blushing. Porthos runs his hands down Aramis’ chest, undoing various ties and buckles, and Aramis sighs, leaning back against his broad chest as they both grin at d’Artagnan. 

“Sound good to you?” Aramis asks. 

Swallowing down, d’Artagnan nods. 

 

-

 

So it becomes like this: Aramis leaning back against the headboard, d’Artagnan between his legs and Porthos kneeling behind d’Artagnan as he slowly shrugs out of his clothes. Aramis itches to reach out and help Porthos to undress, but he focuses on d’Artagnan instead, reaching out to curl his hand around d’Artagnan’s cock and tug at it gently, stroking it slowly. And d’Artagnan lets out a small, hitching gasp and rocks up into the touch. 

“My,” Aramis says with a small laugh, “You’re already enjoying this.”

“Oh shut up,” d’Artagnan says with a laugh. 

Aramis lets his eyes sweep over d’Artagnan – taking him in, observing him now that he has permission to look. He’s handsome. Made more so by the way Porthos’ hands splay out over his chest and slide down as he presses up to d’Artagnan’s back. 

“Remember,” he tells d’Artagnan as he kisses his shoulder, “You need us to slow down, just say so.”

“I heard you the first time,” d’Artagnan says with a dismissive laugh, lifting a hand to curl into Porthos’ hair and guide him towards his neck. Porthos obeys, kissing and dragging his teeth as d’Artagnan sighs and arches. Aramis watches them greedily, ignoring the quiver in his stomach he isn’t ready to examine. He strokes his cock slowly, watching them as d’Artagnan slowly rolls his body back, presses fully to Porthos, gasps out quietly when he must feel the slide of Porthos’ cock into the cleft of his ass with that movement. 

“Should we switch?” Aramis asks Porthos and tells d’Artagnan, “Porthos can be… a lot to take at once.”

“I already said I’m not a virgin,” d’Artagnan protests.

“Yes, but have you ever been fucked by Porthos?” Aramis replies back, casting appreciative eyes towards Porthos, who just grins at him over d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “He’s impressive.” 

“You’ll make me blush,” Porthos laughs.

“I said I’m fine,” d’Artagnan says. 

“We’ll go slow,” Porthos decides. 

“Have you sucked someone off before?” Aramis asks d’Artagnan, who gives him a very heated look and does not answer, just shifts so he can crawl forward between Aramis’ splayed legs and duck his head, pressing a sloppy kiss to Aramis’ stomach. 

His movements are fumbling and jerky, and Aramis suspects that d’Artagnan has never performed the deed but only witnessed the act, or had it performed on himself. Aramis can work with that. He slides his fingers into d’Artagnan’s hair gently. 

“That’s it,” he tells him. He’s careful not to tug too hard at his hair, just lets d’Artagnan explore. It’s good – although the difference is clear. Porthos would already have him halfway to incoherent by now. This isn’t d’Artagnan’s fault, of course, his mouth guiding and gliding in search of a rhythm, getting used to the feel and taste of it. He pretends not to notice when d’Artagnan licks the head of his cock and wrinkles his nose at the taste if only because he then leans forward with gusto, willing to try. He’s suckling at his cockhead, tongue licking slowly. He’s learning him and Aramis lets him, sighing out, tangling his fingers in his hair. He’ll show him some tricks later – provided there is a later. 

He looks up at Porthos as d’Artagnan sucks his cock, watches the way Porthos unscrews the cork from the little bottle of oil he keeps. He pours a liberal amount onto his fingers, more than he’d use on Aramis, but clearly he’s going slowly, taking his time. 

He watches as Porthos runs his palm over d’Artagnan’s ass, parts him slowly and slides his other hand up against him. He knows that Porthos is stroking over him because d’Artagnan gives a full-bodied shudder and draws away from his cock to gasp out. 

“Oh,” d’Artagnan says – and it’s not an unpleasant sound, but perhaps strained – unused to this. 

But Aramis knows how devastatingly gentle and slow Porthos can be. He does not doubt that d’Artagnan will be taken care of. He watches as Porthos moves slowly, just strokes over him, teasing him, his free hand sliding over his thigh, his flank, the small of his back. 

“He’ll take care of you,” Aramis tells d’Artagnan in a murmur, playing with his hair and stroking his fingers down his neck. 

Such a reassurance means d’Artagnan returning to Aramis’ cock with resolve again, clearly determined to demonstrate how capable he is. Aramis doesn’t mind, lifting his hips with a pleased sigh as d’Artagnan abandons trying to lower his mouth over him and settles for stroking him in time to his mouth moving down over his cock, licking and dragging his lips. Far different from Porthos’ technique, but still perfectly lovely. He tugs playfully at d’Artagnan’s hair and sighs out again when he hears d’Artagnan moan, wriggling his hips, pushing back against Porthos’ hand. Porthos must have a finger inside of him now, and Porthos’ free hand is pouring more oil, easing the way for d’Artagnan. 

“Porthos, my dear,” Aramis says, watching the way d’Artagnan licks down his cock, and looks up to find Porthos looking at him, eyebrows lifted. “Would you be so kind as to hurry up? I’d like to watch you fuck our friend d’Artagnan senseless.” 

Such a statement causes d’Artagnan to gasp out a moan.

Porthos laughs out. “Going as fast as I can.” 

Which isn’t the truth, but it’s Porthos’ truth. He is always exceptionally careful and gentle in these moments. Aramis can remember their first time fondly, Porthos dragging it out despite Aramis’ insistence that he was prepared enough. 

“I never get to appreciate you from this angle,” Aramis says with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows that must look utterly ridiculous, but he can’t care. Porthos barks out a laugh and twists his hand so that d’Artagnan moans. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it good,” Porthos says. “Aren’t you always teasing me for being impatient?” 

“You just look so handsome like this,” Aramis says, batting his eyelashes and lifting his hips when d’Artagnan curls his mouth around his cockhead and suckles. He pets through d’Artagnan’s hair and says, very pleasant, “I want to see you wreck him.” 

“Think I can manage that,” Porthos says, his breath hitching a little as he holds back a moan, pressing a second finger into d’Artagnan and stretching him out so that d’Artagnan arches with a soft gasp. 

Then d’Artagnan casts a look up at Aramis and says, “Yes, hello, I’m still here, too. You don’t have to act like I can’t hear you.”

Aramis gives Porthos a ridiculous grin that Porthos mirrors. Porthos twists his hand to get d’Artagnan to curse and arch. 

“What was that?” Porthos asks, “Didn’t quite hear what you said.” 

“I said—” but he cuts off with a moan when Porthos reaches under him and fists his cock, stroking in time to the thrust of his fingers. “Shit!” 

“Such language!” Aramis remarks with wide eyes. “Porthos, would you listen to that?” 

“Very scandalous,” Porthos agrees with a long sigh. “What would people think, seeing you like this?” 

“They’d be overcome,” Aramis says, placing a hand on his chest and tipping his head back. “Women would swoon. Men would shake their heads! Friends and countrymen everywhere would gasp with shock to see their dear d’Artagnan between us like this.” 

“It’d be an ordeal for everyone,” Porthos laughs. 

“Just what will the community think?” Aramis sighs out, dramatically. 

“They’d think you both need to stop flirting and fuck me,” d’Artagnan mutters, blushing, but also looking rather pleased with the movement of Porthos’ hands, the press of Aramis’ cock to his cheek. 

Aramis falters a little. They’re not _flirting._ He tugs at d’Artagnan’s hair, but it only makes d’Artagnan moan out. Aramis is sympathetic. He always moans whenever Porthos plays with his hair – it’s long since stopped being a punishment or warning, only a spark of pleasure in the pit of his stomach. 

He glances up at Porthos to see Porthos shrugging his shoulders. “Better give the man what he wants.” He runs his free hand over d’Artagnan’s side. “Think he’s ready, at least.” 

“I suppose so,” Aramis sighs. “Be my guest, my dear Porthos.” 

“Why thank you, Monsieur,” Porthos says back, twists his hand, and draws back to slick up his cock. 

“I said to stop flirting and to concentrate,” d’Artagnan mutters, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t seem annoyed, just laughing. 

Aramis thinks to himself, no this can’t be flirting. They aren’t flirting. They’re friends. They’re teasing d’Artagnan. This is what he tells himself when Porthos slicks his hand over his cock and winks at Aramis. Aramis grins back. 

“We’re merely remarking on your confidence,” Aramis says with a sniff. He pets his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair, cupping his cheeks to tip his head up. “Remember, we can stop if it becomes too much.” 

And d’Artagnan rolls his eyes. “Yes, I _know._ ” 

Aramis laughs and Porthos laughs behind d’Artagnan, softly, and shifts up onto his knees, pressing to d’Artagnan. His hand cups d’Artagnan’s hip, angles him back properly as he lines up against him. Aramis watches, mesmerized by this. He’s never seen Porthos from this angle before, has never seen the way he moves, the way he touches. He presses his cock against d’Artagnan, but all Aramis can watch is the flex of Porthos’ muscles, the drag of his teeth over his lip as he bites it in concentration. He smoothes his free hand over d’Artagnan’s back, holds him in place as he slowly pushes in.

First, d’Artagnan whines out – tenses, tries to adjust. Aramis plays with his hair, runs his fingers through his hair, circles his thumbs over his neck and shoulders, tries to soothe him with small shushing sounds that he knows d’Artagnan will scoff at when he isn’t concentrating on the foreign sensation of a cock pressing into his ass. 

“That’s it,” Aramis murmurs as Porthos holds still and steady, waiting for d’Artagnan to adjust, and d’Artagnan claws at his thighs, whines and mouths at Aramis’ stomach and cock. He pets through his hair, somewhat insistent. “You’re doing so well. It’ll feel so good when he’s moving inside of you.” 

Swallowing back soft sounds, d’Artagnan manages a nod. It takes a while, but Porthos is slow and patient, steady. He slowly coaxes himself into d’Artagnan, who widens his legs and rolls his hips back slowly, tries to get the angle right, tries to adjust to the sheer size and girth of Porthos’ cock inside of him. 

“Perhaps I should have done this first,” Aramis remarks, threading his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair, carding slowly. 

“Shut up,” d’Artagnan mutters, bites at Aramis’ thigh. “I’m fine. It’s good. Just… give me a moment.”

“Take as long as you need,” Aramis tells him. “It’ll be worth the wait.” 

Aramis looks up from d’Artagnan’s face, studying it carefully to make sure that the pain is only slight, an adjustment, and not real, legitimate _pain_. He looks up and finds Porthos watching him. He’s still as a statue, save for his hands, which slide over d’Artagnan’s sides, his spine, his ass, trying to soothe him, as well. He smiles at Aramis, gentle. Aramis smiles back, tugs at d’Artagnan’s hair slowly, carefully, massaging his scalp. 

“He’s watching you,” Aramis whispers to d’Artagnan, staring into Porthos’ eyes. “You’re doing so good. He’ll make you feel so good. He always does.” 

Porthos gives him a somewhat helpless smile, tracing his fingers down d’Artagnan’s spine, slow and precise. 

Aramis continues to watch Porthos as he tells d’Artagnan, “He’s so large, isn’t he? It’s almost too much. But he’ll make you feel good.”

Porthos’ grin turns crooked and the red on his cheeks isn’t from pleasure, but from embarrassment – he’s holding back a laugh at Aramis, clearly embarrassed with the praise. Aramis feels warm inside, circling his thumbs slowly over the backs of d’Artagnan’s ears, over his neck, along his jaw. 

“You won’t believe how good he’ll make you feel,” Aramis whispers to d’Artagnan, eyes flickering from Porthos’ eyes to his mouth – wishing he could kiss him. 

“Now look who’s talking like I’m not here,” Porthos teases. Aramis laughs, softly. 

Porthos bottoms out, pressing fully into d’Artagnan’s ass. He lets out a sigh and d’Artagnan shifts, arches, wriggles his hips to adjust to the feeling. He’s breathing out heavily, his cock heavy and hard between his legs as he lefts himself from Aramis’ lap. He looks up at Aramis, who smiles at him indulgently, and then over his shoulder to look at Porthos. 

“You alright?” Porthos asks. He lifts his eyebrows. “You look good.”

And d’Artagnan barks out a small laugh, his cheeks pink, and he snaps his hips back _hard_. Porthos gasps out, and then groans, gripping d’Artagnan’s hips hard. 

“Fuck me,” d’Artagnan tells him. “Or are you both all talk?”

Aramis laughs, curls his fingers tight in his hair, and tugs hard. He grins when d’Artagnan nods, eagerly ducks his head to mouth at Aramis’ cock again as Porthos starts up a pace – stroking firm and steady into d’Artagnan. 

“Should have known he’d be mouthy here, too,” Porthos says, sounding pleased. 

“I’m certainly gaining the benefits of mouthiness,” Aramis demurs with a bat of his eyelashes. Porthos barks out a laugh. 

Porthos is excruciatingly slow at first. Aramis knows this well – has gotten plenty distracted and frustrated when Porthos has refused to start out with fucking him hard. But slowly the pressure builds and the pace steadies out, slow but hard – d’Artagnan lurching forward with the force of Porthos’ thrusts. He moans out, and soon the pain is forgotten – he’s gripping Aramis’ thighs hard and licking and kissing over Aramis’ cock somewhat desperately, panting open-mouthed against his skin, breath hitching with moans and gasps. 

Aramis watches Porthos. Watches the way his muscles shift, the way his hands grip, the concentration on his face. He’s never seen Porthos fucking someone else before. It’s mesmerizing, the way he can feel Porthos’ pace through d’Artagnan: d’Artagnan lurching forward with each of Porthos’ thrusts, d’Artagnan’s mouth folding further down his cock with each thrust. 

Like this, Aramis comes first. He can’t look away from Porthos as he moans out, draws d’Artagnan away gently so he won’t come in his mouth – spills over his stomach, eyes locked on Porthos. And through it all – Porthos keeps his eyes fixed on Aramis. They’re not even touching, but Aramis is shaking from the aftermath of his orgasm, lips quirking into a tiny smile as he looks at Porthos. 

Porthos draws d’Artagnan away from Aramis, lifts him up. Like this, Aramis can watch better as he fucks into d’Artagnan, who is boneless in Porthos’ hold. Aramis watches, breathless, at the flex of Porthos’ muscles, the way his hand fists around d’Artagnan’s cock and thrusts in time with his hips. Porthos moans out and d’Artagnan gasps, throws his head back and moans out desperately, moving faster. He’s looking up at the ceiling, his head braced against Porthos’ shoulder. Porthos ducks his head once, kisses d’Artagnan’s neck, his jaw, his eyes flickering to Aramis. 

Aramis watches as Porthos moves, whispers something into d’Artagnan’s ear. He can’t hear it, only hears d’Artagnan’s moan and desperate nod. Watches Porthos’ hand move quicker over his cock, the thrust of his hips surer, faster. Aramis watches. He watches d’Artagnan shift, go pliant in Porthos’ hold. Watches the way Porthos carefully moves him, moves against him – facing Aramis still. Watches the way d’Artagnan moves – knows he himself has been in this position so many times, undone and not thinking of anything but pleasure. 

He wonders if Porthos looks at him like this, in the times when Aramis is too lost in pleasure to notice it. Soft eyes, gentle smile looking at Aramis now as d’Artagnan moves against him. The pang in his stomach is back. 

When d’Artagnan comes, it’s with a shout, spilling out over Porthos’ hand. 

But Aramis can’t stop staring at Porthos. 

 

-

 

Aramis isn’t sure how long he naps after a few rounds of sex, but when he opens his eyes again, it’s dark outside and d’Artagnan is sandwiched between Porthos and himself, snoring. Porthos is awake, and looking at Aramis when he blinks his eyes open. Aramis smiles at him and Porthos smiles back.

“Hey,” Aramis says in a murmur. 

“Hey,” Porthos says back, voice gravely and sleep-thick. Aramis feels warm all over. Porthos asks, “You alright?” 

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Aramis tells him with a soft laugh, trying not to rouse d’Artagnan or jar him with laughter. He tilts his head. “Are you? I know it kind of all just… happened.” 

Porthos chuffs out a laugh, also trying to keep quiet. “Yeah, you could say that.” Before Aramis can get worried, though, Porthos shakes his head. “No, it was good. I liked it.” 

“I’m glad,” Aramis says and finds that he means it. 

Porthos reaches out and pushes Aramis’ hair from his face. Aramis closes his eyes, smiling, and leans into the touch. 

“I’d kiss you right now but you’re too far away,” Aramis tells him, and turns his head to kiss the inside of Porthos’ wrist instead and then the center of his palm. He can hear the rumble of Porthos’ soft laughter. Aramis says, “I feel we hardly got to appreciate each other today.” 

Porthos snorts, softly. “It was about d’Artagnan. We both knew that.” 

“Yes, I suppose,” Aramis says, and casts a fond look down at d’Artagnan, who continues to snore. Aramis traces his fingertips along the line of Porthos’ arm, brushes his thumb along the tendons of his wrist. “I think he enjoyed himself.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “Hope so.” He laughs and grins. “You think he’s going to be able to walk straight tomorrow?” 

“I very much doubt that,” Aramis laughs. 

They lapse into quiet, both of them watching d’Artagnan with exceptional fondness. 

“Next time, I’ll have to have you both fuck me,” Aramis decides and Porthos barks out a loud burst of laughter before he reins it in. Mercifully, d’Artagnan sleeps on.

“You just want to show off,” Porthos says with a large grin. 

Aramis sniffs. “I only want to give d’Artagnan the experience.”

“More like yourself,” Porthos says. “How many times have you told me about wanting that?” 

Aramis finds himself more than warmed by the idea of it, now that it’s in his mind. Both Porthos and d’Artagnan, holding him down—

He lets out a sigh. “The opportunity so rarely presents itself, my dear Porthos.” 

Porthos scoffs quietly, and brushes his thumb along Aramis’ cheek. Aramis hums out quietly and leans into the touch, despite himself. 

“Just don’t overdo it,” Porthos tells him.

“You always say that,” Aramis says back. He turns his head again and kisses the pad of Porthos’ thumb. “You’re sure this was all okay?” 

Porthos nods. “It’s not like I’ve never thought about it before you brought it up, you know.”

Something twists up in Aramis’ stomach. He laughs, softly. “You seemed to enjoy yourself.” 

Porthos lifts an eyebrow at him in the darkness. He pinches Aramis’ nose. Aramis coughs out a laugh and shoves his hand away with a chuckle. The jostling is enough to make d’Artagnan snort in his sleep and shift a little. Both Aramis and Porthos freeze, looking at him and waiting to see if he’ll wake up. But d’Artagnan sleeps on. 

Aramis sighs out. “I’m glad you did.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “You too.” 

“It was strange… seeing you but so far away,” Aramis tells him. He drops his hand down and starts to pet through d’Artagnan’s hair as he sleeps, since he can’t reach Porthos’ hair. 

Porthos hums out. “You too. Don’t usually get to see your face when you’re getting sucked off.” 

Aramis lets out a thready little laugh, blushing and grateful for the darkness to mask it. “I look beautiful when I’m being sucked off.” 

Porthos laughs, which isn’t disagreement or agreement, but it makes Aramis blush further. Porthos’ voice pitches low when he speaks next, low and going straight for Aramis’ cock. “Oh yeah. You looked good.” 

“Now you’re only flattering me,” Aramis whispers, and knows that the desire is lacing thick through his voice. He watches the way Porthos shifts. He feels the way his cock twitches between his legs. 

“A little,” Porthos tells him. “It working for you?”

“Oh, yes,” Aramis agrees. 

They fall into a silence. Both, Aramis thinks, considering the same thing. They glance at d’Artagnan and then at each other. 

Aramis smiles, purely innocent. “How long do you think it’ll take to wake him up if we suck him off together?” 

Porthos laughs. “About two seconds.” 

“Let’s find out,” Aramis offers, and starts squirming down beneath the blankets to get at d’Artagnan’s cock. Porthos laughs and follows him. 

 

-

 

It’s a few days later when Aramis sits down beside d’Artagnan, watching the new recruits practice their sword-fighting with Athos. Aramis gives him a winning smile as d’Artagnan uses a knife to cut off segments of an apple and chew on it. Aramis sits down close to him – closer than he might have normally – and tilts his head.

“So how long is that look going to go on?” d’Artagnan asks him.

“Whatever could you mean?” Aramis asks.

“You looking smug and satisfied. It’s the worst,” d’Artagnan tells him around a bite of apple. 

Aramis laughs out and tips his head back so the sun can hit his face, humming out happily and basking in the light. He shrugs one shoulder, perfectly nonchalant. He is a kind and gracious soul. He is most certainly _not_ smug and satisfied. 

“You wound me, d’Artagnan,” Aramis tells him. 

And d’Artagnan snorts. “Sure.” 

“So…” Aramis says, trailing off significantly. 

At least this time d’Artagnan does not blush when he answers, “So?” 

“Porthos and I were merely wondering if…” Aramis trails off more.

“Use your words, Aramis,” d’Artagnan says dryly. 

Aramis laughs. “Alright. I only wanted to make sure that – all was well. Did you enjoy yourself?”

Aramis darts his eyes around to make sure no one is too close as d’Artagnan sighs, rolling his shoulders absently. His hands still around the knife and apple. 

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says. It’s clear his mind is still heavy with a lost love, but this, at least, Aramis hopes can help take his mind off things – let him enjoy himself. 

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in doing it some more?” Aramis asks. It’d been something he’d said to Porthos in passing, who’d laughed and agreed it might be good. Aramis is, if anything, exceptionally gracious.

But d’Artagnan says, “I don’t know.” 

Aramis frowns. “Was it too strange for you?” he asks, sympathetic. “I understand it can all be a lot…”

“It’s not that,” d’Artagnan interrupts, blushing now. 

“Then what is it?” Aramis asks, not wanting to push too hard in case d’Artagnan is not in the mood for sharing. He supposes he can guess: missing Constance, perhaps. Being overwhelmed by Porthos’ size, or the mere overwhelming nature of being with two men at once. Perhaps he and Porthos should have been gentler in their approach. Done one at a time. Started with Aramis, perhaps. But—

“Just don’t want to make it weird for you two,” d’Artagnan admits.

Aramis laughs. This causes d’Artagnan to scowl, and Aramis pats him on the back, runs his hand along his spine soothingly, a mimic of Porthos’ touch during that night. He knows d’Artagnan must realize it’s so, as his ears turn pink. 

“Wh— … d’Artagnan,” Aramis says soothingly. “You wouldn’t.” 

But d’Artagnan looks unconvinced, chewing at the inside of his cheek with a deep frown. “It’s only that—”

“Porthos and I are friends,” Aramis tells him again. “And we’ve done this before. We have a certain ease with each other that comes with familiarity. That’s all. If you’d… be interested in continuing with us, it’d become like that for you, too.”

He smiles at d’Artagnan, who remains looking unconvinced. His brow furrows further. 

“Don’t know about that,” d’Artagnan mutters. He pauses. Then starts eating his apple again, looking away. Aramis admires his pink ears and wishes he could bite one, absently. After a moment, d’Artagnan says, “I… wouldn’t mind doing it again.” 

“It’s settled then,” Aramis says, cheerfully. “Oh – and I can show you a few things.”

There’s a bark of protest from d’Artagnan. “I don’t need to be taught—”

“But don’t you want to make Porthos come with just your mouth?” Aramis asks, innocently, as d’Artagnan chokes. He drops his voice down low and says, “In fact… I could show you that now.” 

The other musketeers are still practicing, but Aramis grins when he sees the way d’Artagnan’s pupils blow wide. He nods a little and Aramis grins wider, stands, and saunters away – knowing d’Artagnan will follow.

 

-

 

He takes d’Artagnan through the halls, to a back alley of the garrison. Presses him to the wall. Sinks down to his knees. This is a quiet corner he’s taken Porthos to many times – secluded but with the small danger of being somewhat out in the open. 

He undoes d’Artagnan’s buckles. 

“So,” Aramis says, chipper, “be sure to pay attention. I’m going to show you how Porthos likes it.” 

He slides his fingers over d’Artagnan’s hips. 

“You can surprise him next time,” Aramis tells him, grinning up at him. 

“What about what you like?” d’Artagnan asks, frowning. 

“Oh, I can show you that, too,” Aramis says. “Although there’s no harm in saying that just the act of a mouth on your cock can be very enlightening.” 

He hopes it’ll get d’Artagnan to laugh, and it does – and some of the tension eases from his shoulders. Aramis grins. 

Aramis runs his fingers through d’Artagnan’s laces, opens the fly and draws out his cock – and d’Artagnan is already half-hard. Aramis smiles sweetly up at him as he pumps his cock in his hand slowly, coaxing him to full hardness. He shifts a bit on the ground, his knees already aching a little. It’s strange, to be in this position, in this place – looking up at d’Artagnan rather than Porthos. 

It’s not a bad strange, only different. Porthos is much larger than d’Artagnan in most things, but their smiles are both gentle. By now, though, Porthos would know to put his hands in Aramis’ hair. He reaches out with his free hand and guides d’Artagnan’s hair to rest on the back of his head. At least d’Artagnan is a quick learner. He twists his fingers up into Aramis’ hair. 

Aramis palms over d’Artagnan lazily for a few strokes, waits until d’Artagnan’s hips are starting to shake before he leans forward and presses his mouth slowly against the head of his cock, licks once, and then draws back. 

“That what Porthos likes?” d’Artagnan asks, voice thready with desire and frustration. 

“Eventually,” Aramis says. “He also gets angry about being teased. But he always comes harder when you do it.” 

He tilts his head, licks slowly around the crown of his cockhead. Above him, d’Artagnan makes a strangled moaning sound. Aramis knows he won’t last too long – Aramis is, after all, exceptionally talented.

He tilts his head, drags his mouth, and swallows d’Artagnan down – pushing past the feeling of choking in order to swallow him fully. He hums out as d’Artagnan gives a startled choking sound, twists his fingers up hard into Aramis’ hair. Yes, like that. 

He deepthroats d’Artagnan swiftly, draws back enough to bob his head, and it only takes a few minutes before d’Artagnan is coming down his throat. 

He grins up at him and says, “Porthos loves that.” 

And d’Artagnan pants above him, shaking, and manages a small laugh. 

“Alright,” he says, “Point made.” 

Aramis laughs. “I’m quite partial to it, myself. But I also wouldn’t recommend attempting that before you’re used to it, much less on Porthos.” 

“Yeah, that’s – that’s quite the feat,” d’Artagnan agrees. 

Aramis hums out happily at the thought, smiling at the thought of Porthos – cock hard against his tongue, arching his back, yanking hard on his hair to draw him in closer and coming across his mouth. He tastes different from d’Artagnan’s come, he thinks, as he wipes at his mouth and does d’Artagnan’s laces back up again. 

He stands, leans in, and kisses d’Artagnan so he can taste himself. There’s a small murmur of uncertainty from d’Artagnan, but he does kiss him back. 

“Should I try on you?” d’Artagnan asks, eyeing Aramis’ cock through his trousers. 

“Oh, well, if you insist,” Aramis says with a laugh, and turns to lean back against the wall. 

 

-

 

And so that’s how it is. More nights than not, d’Artagnan joins Porthos and Aramis, when they’re together. It’s great fun, Aramis thinks – and he especially likes showing d’Artagnan some pointers, much as d’Artagnan pretends he does not need it. By the end of two weeks, he can suck Aramis’ cock better than most men he’s slept with – Porthos aside – and d’Artagnan’s become rather well-practiced at being fucked by Porthos. In fact, he’d seemed slightly underwhelmed when Aramis fucked him, too used to Porthos’ size and pace, squirming back to try to get Aramis to rock harder against him. 

It works for them. That much, Aramis knows. Anything else is only himself over-thinking. Whenever he finds his mind wandering, whenever he feels that odd twist in his gut – he only ignores it. It’s better that way. 

 

-

 

It becomes strange when a night comes and Aramis is in Porthos’ lap, being fucked by him, riding him swiftly – and d’Artagnan is not with them. He’s with Athos this evening, drinking in the tavern, which means that it’s only Porthos and Aramis sprawled out in Porthos’ bed. It feels strange for it to just be the two of them after so many nights in each other’s company. 

Aramis ducks his head, kisses Porthos hard and steady, moaning out weakly into his mouth as Porthos’ hands drag up his back. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, biting at his lip and tugging. He hears Porthos’ rumbling laugh in reply, the heavy slide of his hands over his skin so that Aramis feels electrified. He swivels his hips, rolls slowly, clenches around the cock inside of him just to hear Porthos’ hitching moan. 

He cups Porthos’ face, draws away from the kiss but keeps moving. They press their foreheads together sloppily, both grinning at one another. Porthos’ hand fists around his cock and strokes in time to Aramis’ movements in his lap and they both moan as they move in tandem. 

“Good?” Porthos asks him. 

Aramis nods, meeting his eyes, then dropping to look at his mouth and back up at him again. He runs his hands over his shoulders, down his chest. 

“You feel so good,” he whispers, as he always does – every time, every time like this overwhelmed with how completely Porthos fills him, how good they feel together, how well they move together—

“You too,” Porthos tells him, kisses the corner of his mouth, along his jaw, bites at his earlobe. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous.” 

Aramis tips his head back, preens, moves slower to put on a show for Porthos – lets Porthos watch the way his muscles move, the slide and slow roll of his hips, the way his cock goes dusky in Porthos’ hand, the way his body tenses up the more Porthos strokes. If the angle were better, he’d spread his legs just so Porthos could see the way his cock slides in better. They fit together so well. They know what the other likes. They’re—

It’s a simple night. Nothing fancy beyond that. Porthos spills out inside of him with a small murmur of warning and Aramis writhes above him, milks him down, feels himself full of Porthos and delirious with it. He spills out over Porthos’ hand, across his stomach, panting out his name and kissing Porthos’ forehead, his temple, his cheek, traces his lips over his scar, and then kisses him sloppily. 

This is good. What they have is good. He drapes his arms over Porthos’ shoulders once they’ve both come down. 

Porthos leans back against the headboard, breathing heavily and smiling at him lazily. They luxuriate like that, foreheads pressed together, neither of them moving to get away from each other. Aramis’ hands stroke the back of Porthos’ neck, into his hair. His free hand brushes over Porthos’ stomach, cleaning up the come, lifting his hand to lick at his fingers absently to clean himself off, if only because that always makes Porthos groan. Porthos’ hands move over his hips, up his back. They hold each other, breathing in each other’s space. 

It’s good like this. So good, to have a friend like Porthos – to be able to catch his breath in the aftermath without fear of discovery, without having to leave, without having to worry. To simply be, like this. 

He brushes his nose to Porthos’ own. Porthos laughs softly and returns the gesture. Their aftermath, the air smelling like sex, is simply pressing together, loathed to leave one another’s space – and to simply breathe one another in. Aramis plays with his hair. Porthos traces his scars. 

 

-

 

The next night, Aramis watches Porthos cup d’Artagnan’s face – kiss him slow and gentle, taking his time with it. They kiss and they kiss, minutes passing – the only sound d’Artagnan’s breathless gasps and moans as Porthos sweeps his tongue over him, slides his thumbs along his jaw.

Aramis watches. Can’t look away. But also doesn’t want to watch, feels an intruder. 

He watches, distantly, as d’Artagnan weaves his fingers through Porthos’ hair. As Porthos tugs at his lip, smiling. 

They look beautiful. Porthos looks beautiful. 

Aramis ignores the twisting in his stomach. 

 

-

 

“Oh,” Aramis says, voice breaking off into a moan. “There, yes—”

His face presses into the pillow that smells like Porthos, d’Artagnan’s fingers thrusting into him with brisk efficiency. He’s getting the hang of it. It takes some coaxing sometimes, but he is nimble and determined, and not so innocent despite his quick smile. It’s not an elaborate thing, to be fucked like this, but it’s what he needs – squirming in Porthos’ bed, d’Artagnan kneeling, naked, behind him and pulling him apart like this. It’s not the first time that d’Artagnan has fucked him, but it’s the first time it’s only the two of them. 

“Ah, d’Artagnan,” Aramis gasps out, slow, letting himself feel it fully, and then says quite forcefully, “Would you be so kind as to _fuck me_ already?” 

And d’Artagnan laughs. Aramis whines out, claws at the sheets and tilts his hips back, arches his back. Rocks himself back against d’Artagnan’s sinfully skillful fingers, spreading him open and thrusting into him. It’s almost too much. It’s such a simple thing and yet it feels too much. 

It’d been a simple matter of doing this. They’d both had their afternoon free, and Aramis needed hands on him. And d’Artagnan is nothing if not an eager and willing partner. 

But d’Artagnan’s other hand rests on his thigh, slides up his side, back down between his legs. Grasps at his cock and tugs once, before letting go – refusing to linger. 

It’s in this moment, when Aramis gasping loudly that he hears the distant sound of familiar footsteps. He would know Porthos’ footfalls anywhere. He’s sprawled out on his bed, d’Artagnan teasing him insistently, and perhaps now he understands why Porthos always complains when Aramis spends hours taking him apart. He hears the thud of Porthos’ footsteps, the long sigh as he finally makes it to the comfort of a quiet home, the turn of the doorknob, the opening of the door. 

Unlike Aramis, d’Artagnan is taken by surprise by Porthos’ sudden appearance. He startles – and then seems to relax once he does recognize Porthos. His hand shifts sharply inside of Aramis – and Aramis gasps out, eyes on Porthos, who’s looking back at him. 

He hadn’t coaxed d’Artagnan to fuck him on Porthos’ for the express purpose that Porthos might see. It hadn’t been calculated like that. Porthos’ room is only closer and he’d needed to have hands on him. His own hands shake now against the bedsheets as he looks at Porthos – as Porthos’ eyes sweep across his face and down his body. And he looks admiring, and that’s too much, that’s—

“Look at you,” Porthos says, arms crossing as he leans back against the door. “What if it’d been someone else hearing you and walking in here?” 

He looks admiring, looking at Aramis. And fuck, fuck, fuck—

Aramis forgets how to speak, he just lets out a small whine, face pressing down into the pillow as he rocks back against d’Artagnan. And d’Artagnan, bless his soul, seems to recover from his surprise enough to twist his fingers sharply inside of Aramis. 

Porthos sounds closer when he speaks next, “You taking care of him?” 

He’s laughing and d’Artagnan laughs, too, slightly hitched – embarrassed, not used to just having someone looking. But Aramis can hardly stand it, can hardly stand having Porthos so close and not touching him, not looking at him. He jerks his head up from the pillow to look up at Porthos, mouth open and breathless. 

“Porthos,” he whispers. 

Porthos turns his eyes from d’Artagnan to grin at Aramis. “Yeah?”

“Will you touch me, too?” Aramis asks, wriggling his hips back against d’Artagnan’s hand. “Please?” 

Maybe they can both fuck him. Maybe—

Porthos laughs, and this close Aramis can see the way Porthos’ cheeks turn pink as he sits down on the edge of the bed. “Well, if you’re going to ask nicely.” 

Aramis reaches for him. Porthos’ hand moves, presses to his back – gentle at the back of his neck, over his scalp, rubbing small circles into his hair. Aramis shudders. It isn’t what he had in mind, but it’s good, so good—

He wants Porthos to touch him always, to always look at him like this—

Aramis bites his lip, caught between sensations – the feeling of it, d’Artagnan firm and precise, but Porthos gentle and soothing, his fingertips ghosting along his scalp, the back of his ear. He’s shaking just from this. 

“You know,” Porthos says, conversationally, running his fingers through Aramis’ hair, “if you drag your nails down his leg and twist your hand the other way, you might just get him to come just from your hand.” 

Aramis whines while d’Artagnan laughs. “What? Wait, really?”

“Give it a try,” Porthos tells him and Aramis feels d’Artagnan’s hand flex against his hip, nails digging in as his fingers twist up. 

It isn’t quite right, isn’t the way Porthos does it, but it’s close and it hardly matters, not when he looks up and finds Porthos giving him a smile that is at once smug and indulgent. 

“Close,” Porthos tells d’Artagnan, looking down at Aramis. “He liked that. Try it again. Harder this time.” 

Porthos sounds so steady, so in control – issuing commands like this. Aramis shudders, his entire body shaking. Porthos is gentle, always so gentle with him, always lets Aramis lead the charge. Like this, hand in his hair, directing d’Artagnan’s movements, Aramis can hardly breathe. 

Porthos’ smile quirks up at one corner, still looking at Aramis even as he speaks to d’Artagnan. “Try again. Harder. He can take it.” 

Porthos grins when d’Artagnan does so and Aramis whines, looking so pleased with himself. Aramis can see his dimples up close, the flush in his cheeks. Aramis’ hands fumble, going for Porthos’ thighs, squeezing. Porthos’ free hand moves, covers Aramis’, thumb fanning out over his knuckles. 

“You good?” Porthos asks him, smiling at him. Aramis nods as d’Artagnan draws his hand back away to add in another finger, to stretch him open. He whines out. Porthos grins, watching Aramis’ face. “Nah, go for more. He can take it. He’s close to coming – you can tell by the sounds he makes.” 

Aramis keens, a long and broken noise. He fumbles his hands over Porthos’ thighs. Squeezes. 

Porthos tilts his head as he looks down at Aramis. Aramis whimpers at him, presses his mouth to his thigh. He’d suck his cock if he could find the dexterity to undo all the necessary belts and laces. He whines out and Porthos strokes his fingers through his hair. 

“You’re so good,” Porthos murmurs to him, approvingly. Aramis shivers. Porthos drags his hand through his hair, cups his cheek. He says to d’Artagnan, “Keep going.” 

And as d’Artagnan obeys and Aramis starts gasping and whining, thrusting his hips back against d’Artagnan’s hand and wishing it were a cock, Porthos drags his fingers through his hair. 

Aramis comes a few moments later with a hitching moan. 

“Good,” Porthos soothes, and it’s unclear if he’s praising Aramis or d’Artagnan – but Aramis hardly cares, shuddering happily. Porthos waits until Aramis has come down before he says, “Now fuck him.” 

Aramis gasps out weakly, nodding his head as d’Artagnan draws his hand away, slides his other hand over his hip. Aramis shivers, whining out, lifting his head to look at Porthos. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, and Porthos cups his chin, slides his thumb over his lips. Aramis kisses at the pad of his thumb. 

“This good?” Porthos asks. 

Aramis nods, eager. Then says, “I’d be better if our friend would hurry up.”

Behind him, d’Artagnan laughs and squeezes his hip. Aramis shivers pleasantly, arches his back a little as d’Artagnan presses his cock up against him. After weeks of this, d’Artagnan is more confident – slides into Aramis slowly, but with surety. 

Aramis shivers, moans, rocks his hips back to coax d’Artagnan in further. The entire time, he looks up at Porthos – tries to catch his eye. But Porthos is watching d’Artagnan now, making sure he’s doing it right. He’s carding his fingers through Aramis’ hair. 

Aramis whines out, squeezes Porthos’ thighs. “Porthos…”

“Shhh,” Porthos soothes, tugging gently at his hair. “Wait. You’re doing so good.” 

Impatient, Aramis mouths at Porthos’ cock through his trousers, looking up at him, feeling the swell of his cock pressing against fabric, wishes he could get his mouth around him and suck him off. Better yet, wishes he could get Porthos to fuck him, too. 

“Will you—” Aramis gasps out, whines and nuzzles at Porthos’ cock. “Will you fuck me next?” 

This, at least, gets Porthos to tilt his head, to look down at him. He grins, slowly, and pets through Aramis’ hair, cups his chin and swipes his thumb over his mouth again. Aramis moans out, opens his mouth and starts suckling on his thumb. 

“Sure,” Porthos says, gently, indulgently. The slight movement of his hips, the press of his cock against Aramis’ cheek through his clothes is enough for Aramis to know he really likes that idea, the flush on his cheeks deepening, his mouth quirked into a wanting smile. 

Aramis tightens around d’Artagnan’s cock, coaxes his hips back. “In the meantime,” he says, regaining his words now, “I’d very much like if you were to fuck me with abandon, d’Artagnan. And come inside me.” 

Behind him, d’Artagnan groans. Aramis glances over his shoulder to grin at him. 

And so d’Artagnan starts to fuck him. Slow at first and then building the pressure – a trick Porthos had done to him many times over. Aramis feels warm all over, pleased to know that d’Artagnan is such a quick learner, Porthos such a skilled teacher. It can only benefit Aramis, ultimately. 

Whenever Aramis looks up through being fucked, through all his gasping and moaning, Porthos is watching him. 

Then, Porthos cups his cheeks, so sweetly, lifts his head. Aramis scrambles for purchase, plants his hands on Porthos’ shoulders, changes the angle of d’Artagnan’s cock inside him. He’s a gasping, moaning mess as he stares up at Porthos’ face, greedy for his approval, greedy for that slow slide of his smile.

“Look at you,” Porthos says. “Wish you could see the way you look right now.” 

And – oh. Aramis shivers, closes his eyes and shudders fully with the weight of those words, the ghost of Porthos’ mouth against his as he leans in to kiss him but waits for Aramis to close the distance. Aramis does, kisses him sloppily, digs his fingers hard into his hair and gasps out when d’Artagnan changes his pace, starts thrusting into him harder. 

“Porthos,” he whines out, drawing from the kiss to look at him, touches at his face. Porthos grins at him, crooked and delightful, and covers his hand with his own, keeps it pressed to his cheek. 

“You look so good.”

“I – always look good,” Aramis protests, starts thrusting back to meet d’Artagnan – slowly breaks his gaze from Porthos to look over his shoulder to grin at d’Artagnan, who grins back. “I suppose I might have help this time.” 

Like this, it only takes a few more strokes before d’Artagnan is coming inside him with a hitched moan. Aramis closes his eyes, arches, sighs out and drags his hips down to rock against him, to squeeze around him. He squeezes Porthos’ shoulders in turn, finds Porthos’ hands at his waist, holding him up, supporting him, feeling the slide of his body against his palms. Aramis whimpers happily. 

“Please,” he whispers, can’t put more words to the desire, but Porthos intuits what he means, curls his hand around his cock, and strokes him until he comes again. 

Aramis barely has time to breathe for it. Porthos plays with his hair with his free hand and d’Artagnan pumps into him a few more strokes and then slowly draws out of him. He feels at once full and empty. 

He whispers, “Please,” and then, “Fuck me, Porthos. Fuck me, too.” 

“You need a breather?” Porthos asks, but his hand is reaching back, slick with Aramis’ come, sliding two fingers into him easily, passage slicked with oil and d’Artagnan’s come. Behind him, Aramis hears d’Artagnan groan quietly. 

Aramis is wordlessly trying to strip Porthos down, drags his shirt off, undoes the laces of his trousers enough to free his cock, hard and thick. 

He squirms out between the two of them, Porthos and d’Artagnan, situates himself onto his back. He whines out when Porthos draws his hand away from him. He looks up at Porthos, spreads his legs. 

“Fuck me,” he commands. 

He stretches, gets comfortable, rests his head in d’Artagnan’s lap. Smiles up at him. 

“And if you’d be so kind as to play with my hair,” Aramis sighs out, spreads his legs more when he feels Porthos situating between them. 

Like that, it becomes easy – Porthos hardly needs any time to slick his cock up, to press inside of him. He feels shivery and sensitive all over, so quick after his orgasm. He cries out, slowly, lifts his hips as he stretches around Porthos’ cock. He’s so large, so thick – so good, so good. Fuck, fuck—

Porthos strokes into him, slow, pumps into him so gently. Aramis wants it harder but knows why Porthos goes slow. Above him, d’Artagnan plays with his hair, tugs thoughtfully in the way he knows Aramis likes. 

Aramis is watching Porthos, though. Squeezes around him when he feels how close he is. It hardly takes any time at all for Porthos to come inside him, to fill him alongside d’Artagnan’s seed. He is a sweaty, sticky mess and he loves it. Loves it so much. Being full of them both, being fucked open like this, spread out and open and wanting – able to indulge. He turns his head and kisses d’Artagnan’s thigh. 

Reaches out to Porthos. Porthos meets him, catches both his hands in his, threads their fingers together and pins them down above him, on either side of d’Artagnan’s hips.

Porthos watches him back as he fucks into him, rides out his orgasm. He huffs out, smiles at him, lifts his head and kisses d’Artagnan in greeting now that he’s close enough. Aramis moans out weakly, lets himself fall into this feeling of being so overfull. To be so desired. 

Once it’s all over, Aramis slumped against the bed, breathing out, Porthos’ hand in his hair, petting him absently – Aramis glances up, catches d’Artagnan watching the two of them, that same frown on his face that keeps twisting there after the three of them do this. Aramis can’t place it, and d’Artagnan never clarifies. He looks first at Aramis, then Porthos, then between them. 

“Hmm?” Aramis hums out, thoroughly fucked-out and tired – blissed. 

But d’Artagnan shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

But he keeps watching them. Aramis, too afraid to demand clarification, only closes his eyes and nuzzles absently against Porthos’ shoulder. Porthos tugs gently on a curl, tucks it behind his ear. It’s a simple, gentle gesture. Nothing more than that. Porthos, at the heart of it, is an exceptionally good friend to them both. 

Porthos reaches out to d’Artagnan, tugs him down, too. Together, they press to either side of Porthos. He plays with d’Artagnan’s hair a little and d’Artagnan sighs out, rests his cheek against Porthos’ shoulder, and closes his eyes – dozing. 

Aramis smiles up at Porthos, kisses the scar at his collarbone. Porthos smiles back. 

Aramis sighs out, lifts himself up – and kisses Porthos, slow and gentle, drags his teeth over his lip and holds close to him. They breathe in each other’s space. Once they part, Aramis presses his forehead to his, smiling at him indulgently. 

Porthos’ expression gentles and he nuzzles his nose to his. 

 

-

 

The next night, it seems turnabout is fair play. Aramis walks in to find Porthos and d’Artagnan already locked in an embrace. He freezes up in surprise and then lets out a thready little laugh – watching as Porthos drags his mouth off of d’Artagnan’s cock and tilts his head towards Aramis with a smile.

“Hey,” he says, “You’re back.” 

Aramis nods, eyes hungry as he takes in the scene before him – d’Artagnan grasping hard at the sheets beneath him, cock hard as Porthos suckles around it, hands on his hips to hold him down. Aramis closes and locks the door behind him. He swallows down thickly. 

He takes his time, moving around the room – removing his boots, his gloves, simply watching – watching the way Porthos closes his eyes, slides his mouth down over d’Artagnan’s cock, swallows around him. He can see Porthos’ jaw working, the slide of his tongue. Aramis can’t breathe. 

It seems d’Artagnan can’t quite breathe, either – he’s muffling his shouts, biting hard at his lip and thrusting eagerly into Porthos’ mouth. Aramis watches, silent, as he undoes the buttons of his coat, watching Porthos’ hand cup d’Artagnan’s balls, slide up around the base of his cock, squeezes, strokes over him as his mouth works. He can see the flex of Porthos’ jaw—

_You’ve been taking it too slow,_ he thinks, seeing the way Porthos’ tongue swirls around d’Artagnan’s cock. _Your jaw must be killing you._

He tugs his shirtsleeves up over his head. 

“Want to join?” Porthos asks, kissing sloppily over d’Artagnan’s hip. 

Aramis hums and shakes his head, settling onto the other end of the bed, running his hand through Porthos’ hair once in greeting. 

“Oh, I think I’d much rather see how this plays out,” Aramis says, palms his cock slowly to try to coax it into hardness. 

Porthos shrugs, returns to his task. Aramis glances up at d’Artagnan, and finds d’Artagnan watching him – concerned through the haze of his lust. Aramis blows him a kiss, which seems to settle d’Artagnan and allow him to turn his attention back to Porthos. Which is how it should be – Porthos should never be ignored. 

It stays like that, then: Porthos getting d’Artagnan ready, sucking his cock and his hand eventually sliding between his legs, stretching him, getting him ready. And Aramis only watches. Doesn’t reach out to touch. 

Twenty minutes later or so, Porthos is fucking into d’Artagnan, holding him down – he’s grinning at him, looking at d’Artagnan as he pants back up at him, mouth curved up into a pleased smile. Aramis watches as d’Artagnan lifts his hands, curls them around the back of Porthos’ neck, one hand tangling up into his hair. 

And all Aramis can think is, _Look at me._

He sits there, stupidly, and waits – his hand on his cock. _Look at me_ , he thinks, desperately, staring at Porthos. But Porthos is ducking his head, kissing d’Artagnan’s neck, his chest, his hands sweeping down his sides, gripping his hips, lifting them up so he can get a better angle as he fucks into d’Artagnan. And d’Artagnan tilts his head back, arches, moans out – digs his fingers hard into Porthos’ hair.

And all Aramis can think is, _Is this what we look like?_

He stares, dazed, at the way d’Artagnan moves beneath Porthos – how large and strong Porthos looks, despite not being any larger than d’Artagnan in a significant way. The slide of his hands. The curve of his smile against d’Artagnan’s skin. 

Aramis swallows. 

_Look at me. Look at me. God, please, look at me._

Porthos scoops his hand up under d’Artagnan’s head, tangles in his hair, and kisses him sloppily. Aramis can see him smile. He looks beautiful like this – looks beautiful in all things. Aramis’ stomach is knotting from the inside out. 

Finally, blissfully, Porthos turns towards him – looks amused, his smile light, his eyes gentle as he looks at him. He holds out a hand towards him and beckons. 

“You going to sit there all day or join us, you idiot?” 

Hands shaking, Aramis reaches out for him. 

 

-

 

A few nights later, it’s only Aramis and Porthos – d’Artagnan called away on a mission with Athos. 

Aramis rests against Porthos’ shoulder, traces his fingers over his chest, touching at the scars. 

Porthos’ hand on his back stills. 

Aramis sighs out, glances up with a quiet, “Hmm?”

Porthos is looking at him. “Hey…” he starts, pauses, frowns. “You sure everything is alright?” 

“What do you mean?” Aramis asks. 

Porthos shakes his head. “Dunno. Just… You know you can talk to me, right?” 

Aramis frowns, sits up a little to study Porthos’ face. Porthos lets him go, looking up at him with a thoughtful frown. 

“About what?” Aramis asks, his stomach twisting – thinking about too many things, everything at once. 

“Sometimes you seem… I don’t know,” Porthos says. He shakes his head. “Just – you know you can talk to me.” 

Aramis frowns, shifts, cups Porthos’ face. Porthos sighs out, closes his eyes, leans into that touch. Aramis closes his eyes, too, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Of course I know that,” he whispers. He fans his thumbs across Porthos’ cheekbones. “There is no one I trust quite like you.” 

Porthos breathes out a small chuff of laughter, nods a little. Aramis flickers his eyes open to see Porthos studying him. 

“I know that,” Porthos tells him, hands at his hips. He drags slowly, pulls Aramis so he’s up over him, pressing down. They’re both too tired, too sated from sex to feel anything desirable from the shift in position, but Aramis does relax marginally to be pressed to him like this. 

“Then what is it?” Aramis asks.

A hand curls into Aramis’ hair and Porthos admits, “Sometimes I think you’re not into this.”

“What, you mean with d’Artagnan?” Aramis asks and Porthos nods. Aramis laughs. “Porthos, it was my idea.”

“Doesn’t mean things can’t change,” Porthos tells him with a roll of his eyes. “You’d tell me if you weren’t alright with it anymore, yeah?” 

“You hardly need my permission to fuck who you’d like,” Aramis tells him.

Porthos frowns, thoughtfully. “Guess not. But it’s the three of us more often than not now.” 

“Yes,” Aramis agrees, slowly. He runs his hand down Porthos’ neck, over his chest, settles over his heart. “I have no complaints about your performance, I assure you.”

He’s hoping to get a laugh, but Porthos only gives him a stern look. Aramis smiles, sweet and innocent. Leans forward to kiss the tip of Porthos’ nose. 

“I’ll say if that changes,” Aramis promises. 

Porthos seems satisfied, nodding his head. He gives Aramis a long, steady look. Then lifts his hand to cup Aramis’ cheek. 

Aramis’ breath hitches. He leans into the touch, closes his eyes. The shivering in his stomach is utterly divorced from pleasure of sex, it’s—

He really has been a terrible liar to himself, he thinks distantly. Just friends. Of course. He lifts his hand, covers Porthos’ with his own, to keep the hand pressed there to his cheek. 

 

-

 

He walks in on d’Artagnan and Porthos fucking again but it’s been a long day and Aramis only feels tired. 

He shakes his head at the invitation. “No, please, do continue. I think I might just go to sleep for now.”

He turns before he can catch Porthos’ eye. He closes the door. Leans against it. 

Despite himself, he listens to the other end of the door. Hears shifting. Hears a grunt – not of pleasure, but of frustration. 

“Are you sure this is fine?” he hears d’Artagnan ask Porthos. “You and Aramis…”

“We’re friends.” Aramis’ heart presses into his throat at how uncertain Porthos sounds. A quiver of hope. 

“You’re both idiots, more like,” d’Artagnan mutters.

“Let’s just stop for now,” he thinks he hears Porthos mutter before Aramis is walking down the hallway quickly, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, massaging absently. 

 

-

 

No, Aramis thinks. He never was very good at lying, except maybe to himself. 

 

-

 

But d’Artagnan is not the first time they’ve slept with someone else together. He can’t – he doesn’t understand why it’s different now, why his heart twists up when he sees Porthos cup d’Artagnan’s cheeks and kisses him slowly, surely. 

He doesn’t understand why Aramis can look up at d’Artagnan fucking into him and not just _enjoy it_ , instead always seeking out Porthos’ eyes, looking to make sure he’s approving, make sure he’s watching, make sure he’s reaching out to Aramis to thread their fingers together. 

Porthos’ hands on him – against his chest, holding him down, his hand, squeezing, his cock, stroking—

He doesn’t know why it’s become like this, why he can’t breathe if Porthos isn’t looking to him during sex, whey he seeks Porthos out more and more outside their bed. Why he lets his hand linger on Porthos’ shoulder, why he lets himself linger in his space, seeking out his eyes, seeking out his laughter—

No. He does know why. He just doesn’t want to think it. Doesn’t want to admit to it. He clamps it down – a sure, desperate fear. He’s never been good at this. He’s messed up. He’s made it worse—

He can’t lose this. 

 

-

 

“Would you just stop being an idiot already?” d’Artagnan asks. 

Aramis pretends not to hear him as he walks past. 

 

-

 

Aramis looks between the two of them and says, “I want you both to fuck me. At once.” 

He meets Porthos’ eyes. Holds them. Blinks once. Hopes he only looks confident, not needy, not desperate – not reaching, ever reaching, and feeling as if he’s come up short. 

 

-

 

It’s like this, then: 

Porthos lying on his back, pulling Aramis on top of him. Aramis moves on his own, but lets d’Artagnan situate him properly. He moans out quietly, lets himself be manhandled. Hands on him. They slide down over him, make him feel as if he’s been caught on fire. 

“Tell us if you need to slow down,” Porthos says to Aramis, because he always says this. “We’ll start with d’Artagnan. Then me.” 

Aramis kisses him, slightly frenzied. 

 

-

 

Aramis sighs out as d’Artagnan fills him, a moan slipping out as Porthos’ hands fall to his shoulders, firm, urging him down to take his cock. He shudders. He blinks his eyes open and finds Porthos watching him, beneath him. 

He cups Porthos’ cheek, breathing out harshly as he adjusts to d’Artagnan’s cock inside of him. He shimmies his hips a little, his cock sliding against Porthos’ stomach and trying not to be overwhelmed with the friction. He needs to last. He needs this. 

He looks at Porthos – and Porthos watches him back. Aramis gives him a wobbly smile, but has to look away. He looks over his shoulder at d’Artagnan, who’s running his hands down Aramis’ back, sliding into him carefully, cautiously. He really did inherit the cautiousness from Porthos. He’d be touched by the concern if it didn’t mean the exceptionally slow drag of preparation. He just wants to be fucked by them both. 

He’s watching d’Artagnan, eyes darkened with desire. Porthos’ fingers go tight at his shoulder as d’Artagnan slowly rocks into him. They’d guided his way with their fingers, but this is a different feeling entirely and d’Artagnan’s cock goes deep. Aramis closes his eyes, moans out quietly. 

“You’re so good,” Porthos whispers, as he always does, and Aramis shivers. He’s been shying away the last few days, shying away from them both – but like this, it’s good. Porthos, praising him, d’Artagnan with his hands on him. He feels himself falling. He lets himself fall. 

The friction and drag of d’Artagnan’s cock inside of him makes him whimper as Porthos moves beneath him. 

“You need more?” Porthos asks. Time, cock, he isn’t sure—

Aramis just nods. Whispers, “Please.” 

Aramis holds still as d’Artagnan stills inside him, both watching as Porthos slicks up his fingers with more oil, squeezes one finger in alongside d’Artagnan’s cock. His fingers play delicately at his stretched rim. He already feels so full, d’Artagnan inside him. He’s never done this before – and it feels as if it’ll push him over the edge. He whines out. Squeezes his eyes shut and pants and knows that Porthos and d’Artagnan are looking at each other – knows this without even looking. They’re moving together: d’Artagnan wiggles his hips just a little, giving Porthos space to slide a slicked finger alongside his cock, stroking both into him and playing against him. 

One finger feels pleasant, really, but the second finger is a stretch. He claws at the sheets, gasps, arches, shifts his hips to adjust it. A seed of fear in his gut – can he handle this? He wants it. He needs it so desperately. He needs to feel overfull again, both Porthos and d’Artagnan. 

He pants out, opens his eyes, finds Porthos watching him carefully – studying his face for signs of pain beyond discomfort. He offers him a shaky smile.

“God,” he whispers, “I need you inside me.” 

“Soon,” Porthos promises. 

Where they might have teased, now falls to quiet determination. Porthos works at loosening Aramis up, getting him prepared for a second cock – larger, bigger, thicker than Aramis can imagine, and d’Artagnan keeps still inside of Aramis with some effort, doing his best not to thrust, not to come. 

Porthos leans up and kisses Aramis. Aramis hums out, grateful for the distraction, grateful it masks the soft sob that wants to bubble out of his chest – overfull already, feeling himself stretched open, feeling his heart cleave open watching Porthos beneath him. This is what he’s wanted, this is what—

It feels like it goes on forever. Porthos, slowly adding his fingers, stretching him. It’s pleasant at first, then uncomfortable, and then pleasant again. He starts to shiver, shuddering – imagining two cocks inside of him. His cock, flagging from the preparation, starts to thicken again. 

Then, finally, blissfully, Porthos asks him, “Ready?”

Aramis nods, eagerly. “Yes, yes, God, _yes_ —”

Porthos’ hand falls to d’Artagnan’s shoulder – pushes him back slowly, so he’s barely in Aramis at all, just the tip of his cock pressed to his entrance. Aramis whines out, low. Porthos makes a sound of sympathy as he draws his fingers out. His free hand rubs at Aramis’ sore, aching muscles. 

“We’ve got you,” Porthos tells him. 

“Yes,” Aramis whispers. 

“Tell us if you need to stop,” d’Artagnan says, without any trace of irony. Aramis laughs out breathlessly, tilts his head back so that he’s resting against d’Artagnan’s shoulder. 

“Yes,” he whispers again. Widens his legs, arches his back. “Please. Please, just fuck me. I need this. Please…” 

Porthos presses his cock to him, alongside the head of d’Artagnan’s cock, and already that feels like too much. He shudders. Widens his stance more. Porthos begins to push into him, just enough that his cockhead breeches with d’Artagnan’s. It’s already so much. He forgets to breathe. He tenses up and then forces himself to relax. 

He opens his eyes and Porthos’ face is twisted up in concentration, sweat at his brow. He trusts him. He knows him. He knows that Porthos won’t hurt him, that Porthos will take as long as he needs to make sure this is good. It’s good. It’s so good—

“Porthos,” he whispers out in a breathless moan, voice thick. His heart has heaved into his throat and he can’t speak. 

It’s aching and slow. The pressure builds up inside of him as Porthos slowly, slowly, so painfully slowly, pushes into him. He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes through it, teeth gritting and going breathless. 

Porthos leans up, kisses over his face. Behind him, d’Artagnan ducks his head and kisses the back of his neck and shoulder, nuzzles into his hair. It’s wonderful and distracting and Aramis focuses on that rather than the building pressure of two cocks pressing inside of him. Porthos’ hand cups his cheek, strokes his thumb along his jaw. And d’Artagnan’s free hand runs up his spine. They go, inch by inch, slowly, filling him. 

He can’t breathe. He drops his hand down, touches at their cocks, at the space where they both disappear inside him. He’s already so full. They haven’t even bottomed out and he feels so full, so stretched. His entire body shudders out. His cock is aching. 

Porthos’ hands touch at him, hold him up. He goes boneless, lets himself relax fully, lets them press their cocks inside of him. He has no fear of falling, with Porthos holding him up like this, d’Artagnan’s arms wrapped around his waist to keep him in place. 

He’s gulping in air, greedy, gasping. “Oh… Oh—”

“I’ve got you,” Porthos whispers to his mouth and Aramis whines, nodding his head. Yes, he does. He has no idea how much he does—

“God,” Aramis whispers. His hand fans around the bases of their cocks, feels how wide they are, the way they slide together to get inside of him. He’s trembling. “God, oh God…” 

“Look at you,” Porthos murmurs. “You’re perfect.” 

Despite himself, Aramis preens – tilts his head back with a gasping smile. “As handsome as you imagined?” 

“More,” Porthos tells him with a breathless hum, pupils blown wide, hands on him. Finding comfort in his steady presence. Finding so much. 

“Will you move?” Aramis whispers, “Please?”

“Can you handle it?” Porthos asks, worried. “You need more time?”

Aramis shakes his head. “I’m going to break if you don’t start fucking me. Both of you.” 

Porthos exchanges a look with d’Artagnan. Behind him, Aramis can feel d’Artagnan shrug – his hands fanning out over Aramis’ chest, holding him in place. 

Porthos rolls his hips, slow and deliberate, and Aramis can feel every inch of the movement as he clutches at him, tries to breathe. He feels like he’ll fall apart and then he moans out, quietly, and feels d’Artagnan move against him, too. 

“I can feel it,” d’Artagnan whispers to Porthos. 

“You alright?” Porthos asks the both of them. Aramis and d’Artagnan both nod. “Gonna keep going, then.”

He rocks up, more deliberately, and both Aramis and d’Artagnan moan, and d’Artagnan struggles to meet the pace, to match it, to rock into Aramis in time to Porthos’ movements. Aramis whimpers, feels them both moving inside of them, can only imagine what it must feel like to be pressed so close to Porthos’ cock like that. He shivers. 

He drops down to change the angle, presses his forehead to Porthos’ shoulder. He breathes out. Porthos turns his head, nuzzles at his jaw, into his hair, presses his mouth to his ear. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Porthos tells him. Aramis squeezes his eyes shut and shudders. Both Porthos and d’Artagnan are moving their hands over him, trying to soothe him, and it’s working to help him to relax, to adjust to the sheer size of them both inside of him. This is what he wanted—

“Porthos,” he whispers, buries his face against Porthos’ neck. Breathes out more. 

“How do you feel?” Porthos asks him, loud enough for d’Artagnan to hear. Aramis feels—

He feels stretched and he knows how sore he’ll be after this, and he can’t care. There’s a fierce pride, a fierce smugness – he can do this, he has them both, he’s overfull and brimming and it’s _perfect_ , and the two men pressed against him are shivering and shuddering with him, thick with pleasure, wanting to make him feel like this always—

“So good,” he manages around a small, breathless laugh. He draws back to look at Porthos and says, prim, “Now both of you fuck me until I can’t speak.” 

Porthos looks at d’Artagnan again. And after that, they set their rhythm – slower than Porthos’ usual deep thrusts, but faster than d’Artagnan’s hesitant rolls. There’s an intensity to it, immensity, and the pressure is so different from what Aramis knows. He doesn’t think he’ll ever come down from this, ever be able to recover from the slow and deep rolls of their hips. They break off occasionally so d’Artagnan can move in shallow thrusts while Porthos moves slower and deeper, pushing deep inside of him, filling him. Aramis gasps out, shudders. 

Aramis sighs out around these moans, moves his hips a little to get them to keep moving, rocks down against Porthos, his cock plumping up again with the mounting of pleasure, and the more he moves the nicer it all starts to feel – pleasure and pain, his heart reawakening when Porthos casts him a winning, gentle smile. He’s earned this. Praise. Pride. His thighs are protesting his position but he doesn’t care, rocking back firmly to draw them both deep inside of him. Porthos groans out and d’Artagnan whispers his name and he feels himself swelling with pride – he’s done this, this is what he’s wanted—

He drags his hands down Porthos’ chest. Whispers, “You both feel so good. I wish you could feel this, too.” 

He wriggles his hips. Rocks back. Starts to take control of the pace. Porthos and d’Artagnan let him, let him take that control – and he plants his hands firmly down on Porthos’ chest, arches his body, lets his hair fall into his eyes as he tilts his head forward. 

It’s d’Artagnan who comes first – both their names tangling up in his mouth as he thrusts up sharply into Aramis and then comes. Aramis arches and moans out, rocking his hips down and moving almost fully now to take them in deep. He’s gasping for breath, feeling himself full of their cocks, the come. The come slides out of him as d’Artagnan slowly, carefully, pulls out. It drips down his legs. Aramis shudders. Drops his hand down to feel at himself, to try to fill that sudden emptiness, even with Porthos’ cock still inside him. He slides three fingers into himself, lets them brush against Porthos’ cock. He thrusts into himself alongside Porthos. 

Porthos groans out. With d’Artagnan out of him, Aramis can shift, move, get a better angle so that he’s riding Porthos – thrusting down slow and luxurious against him, coaxing him.

“Come in me,” Aramis whispers, stretches himself with his fingers, slides his fingers over his cock. He rocks his hips more, staring down at Porthos. “Come in me. Fill me up. Please, please—”

Porthos grips his hips, guides him down. Aramis slides his hands over him. 

“Fuck,” he sobs out, shuddering, “Porthos, Porthos, please—”

Porthos thrusts up hard into him and Aramis gasps out, and a moment later he feels himself filling with Porthos’ come. He shudders, cries out, writhes above him and rolls his hips down to feel him fully. He feels empty, sore all over, and he needs more. He grips Porthos’ shoulders, drops down to kiss him sloppily through it. 

Porthos curls his hand around his cock, tugs slowly, strokes him off – and soon Aramis is coming in his hand. 

When Porthos does slip out of him, Aramis whimpers, doesn’t want it to end. He kisses Porthos again and again, until Porthos starts to laugh and whisper his name, trying to coax him back. 

When they part, it’s to see d’Artagnan coming back into the room – Aramis hadn’t realized he’d left – carrying a wet towel to clean them off. He grins a bit at the two of them and tosses it at Aramis’ head. 

Aramis laughs, too sore and too tired to do much else, and collapses against Porthos. Porthos hums out, kissing his forehead, then his temple, and takes up the cloth to wipe Aramis clean. Aramis shivers at the touch, his body feeling electrified, unable to handle even these simple touches. He sobs out quietly when the towel passes between his legs, raw and sore, and cleans him off. 

“You’re so good,” Porthos whispers into his hair and Aramis preens again, arches his back. 

“Mmmm,” he hums out, presses sloppy kisses to Porthos’ neck. 

He feels d’Artagnan drop down beside them, Porthos reaching out to tug him down so he’s cuddling up to his side. Sandwiched between them, Aramis just sighs out, pressing slow kisses to Porthos’ chest and rolls off into sleep. He can hear d’Artagnan and Porthos murmuring words to each other, but he no longer has enough sense to stop and listen. He only sleeps, his breath ghosting over Porthos’ skin. 

 

-

 

When he wakes up again, it is only Porthos there. 

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” Aramis whispers.

“He went back to his room. Wanted to clean up,” Porthos says. He pets his fingers through his hair. He cups Aramis’ face. “You alright?” 

“Oh, I’m so good,” Aramis sighs. He hasn’t tried to move, though, and knows that walking tomorrow morning will be another thing entirely. “Was that… alright for you?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Porthos tells him, and kisses the tip of his nose. Aramis stutters out a quiet laugh. “If I’d known you’d react like that, I’d have done this ages ago.”

Aramis laughs. “Oh yeah?”

“You were really into it,” Porthos tells him. 

Aramis sighs out, wistful and pleased, “I’ll never walk normally again.”

Porthos laughs. 

 

-

 

In the end, it’s d’Artagnan who looks between the two of them and says, “I think I need a break from this.” 

Aramis frowns, blinks. “What?” 

“Of course,” Porthos says, rather than press. 

“But why?” Aramis insists. 

But d’Artagnan gives them both long looks and then says, “Figure it out.” 

 

-

 

Aramis worries it will be strange between the three of them. But things fall back into place quickly enough. In the field, d’Artagnan is all biting words and bumping shoulders – grins at Aramis and Porthos when something happens, jokes with them, teases Athos. It’s as if nothing has ever happened. 

But Aramis lingers too near to Porthos. Even now, when it is only the two of them, Aramis clings to him so desperately. It weighs heavy in his chest.

_Figure it out,_ d’Artagnan had told him. 

He palms at Porthos’ cheek as Porthos thrusts into him each night, smiles up at him when Porthos bites his lip in concentration. 

_Figure it out,_ d’Artagnan had told them both.

He traces his thumb over Porthos’ scar, across his shut eye. His heart feels overfull. 

_Figure it out,_ d’Artagnan had told him. 

 

-

 

Then: 

Coming down from his orgasm, hand in Porthos’ hair. A simple thing, a simple pleasure—

Porthos smiling at him so softly. 

“I love you,” Aramis sighing out before he can quite stop it – and freezing. Aramis stares, gasps out, and covers his eyes with a quiet, “Oh, fuck.” 

 

-

 

And then: 

Porthos’ hand on his, tugging it gently away from his face. Aramis daring to open his eyes, Porthos looking at him – soft and gentle. 

“Hey,” he whispers. 

Aramis, mortified, blushes and makes a soft, pitched sound in response – and looks away. 

 

-

 

And then:

“I love you, too, you know.” 

 

-

 

Then: 

Aramis blinking at him. 

Both of them staring.

Both of them breaking out into delirious, ridiculous smiles – and laughing. Porthos butts his head to his, harder than necessary, and Aramis sees stars – pain, pleasure, happiness, delirious relief. 

That fear, that fear – he will hurt him, he will lose this. But also—

Porthos cupping his cheeks, leaning in, whispering, “Fuck. I love you.” 

Aramis, laughing, saying, “I love you more.” 

Because it feels simple, because it feels necessary. 

Wanting Porthos to laugh. He does. His eyes are glassy, though, but he’s grinning – dimples, crooked smiles, hands on him. 

Saying, “Not a goddamn chance.” 

Aramis, thrumming with happiness. He can deal with the fear later. He can deal with everything later—

For now, there is just this:

Porthos kissing Aramis until neither of them can breathe. Laughing. Touching. Never getting enough.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, [my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/).


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